Poems by Irene Hays
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Enough
by Irene Hays
From Canary Spring 2010
Irene lives in the semi-arid shrub steppe near the confluence of the Columbia and Yakima Rivers in southeastern Washington State.
The way of being I know best
takes me to the edge
of the river where I kneel,
reach into the pure ripple,
let silver threads lace my fingers,
take from me only
what swells the river’s
coursing wildness
leaves me
enough.
© Irene Hays
Eyes of the Universe
by Irene Hays
From Canary Spring 2011
If, as Thoreau says,
we are the eyes of the universe,
to whom do we report our findings?
We gather data for years, lead with the heart,
as natural as hunger or breathing.
Each day opens new,
the smallest bits a kaleidoscope of hope.
Who needs to know
when everything comes home at last,
into the arms of wildness,
deep as forever.
© Irene Hays
Rustles in the Underbrush
by Irene Hays
Pygmy rabbit
the smallest of its species
might fit inside a wren’s nest.
Sagebrush lizard
scruffs his way along,
blue belly to the sand.
Burrowing owl
at home underground
measures only a hand-span.
Barely heard
seen only out of the corner of your eye
soon not at all.
© Irene Hays
Threshold
by Irene Hays
From Canary Summer 2010
What if we face the universe unbarred
no stories to make the strange familiar
no need to make a dog or a dipper of the stars
or explain the turn of the earth or a cloud gone dark
no old stories to deconstruct, say, religion or a tired metaphor?
What would it be like to live always at the threshold
of an ever generative universe
no fresher air at any glacier peak?
© Irene Hays